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so here i sit on a friday afternoon i got a view so that helps and the weather has changed into spring almost summer and i am flooded with all the memories of countries and people and it is getting crowded in my head plus there's the net with its endless streams of words information images and emails to catch up on and how many presses publish poetry now and how many books are of interest not that i am a gatekeeper of course but i want to see interesting things taking shape like they sometimes do in the indie music world i mean what is interesting anyway yes we know it is partly subjective but not completely i mean the advance guard in art is still around fully in the present and there are armies of imitators and how to know the real thing anyway if it is smack dab in the language of the tribes of the now in the now so here i sit

and there is a man in the park outside wandering among the paths and there are voices in other rooms i cannot see

i am feeling some authentic stirring inside and distrust the rhetoric of poetry

my authentic is not your authentic but sometimes the authentic leaks through and we all jump up and down with glee


the authentic exists but maybe it has a limited lifespan

kill poet when dead

human beings are better than poets


Anonymous said…
I too dislike it!
Anonymous said…
I too dislike it!
Anonymous said…
I too dislike it!

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
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